


a thousand rainy days.

by lordvoldyfarts



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordvoldyfarts/pseuds/lordvoldyfarts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke's lost inspiration. She goes to a museum to find it. She finds Lexa instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a thousand rainy days.

She’d been stuck for days.

She keeps her pencil tip poised, touching the paper, but for some reason, her hand just won’t move. She hasn’t drawn even a single line in over a week. Her inspriation’s been bled dry. There’s only so many times she can sketch her roommates while they watch The Real Housewives before it starts to get…redundant. And unchallenging. She has a project due by Wednesday and she needs to crank out something new and no matter how deeply she searches or wracks her brain, she can’t manage to come up with anything special enough. Anything  _wow_ enough.

It’s a Saturday afternoon and it’s raining. Octavia and Raven are, as Clarke expected, nursing their hangovers from last night with coffees and the newest season of House of Cards. She slips on her jacket, which nearly matches her light blue rain boots, with the exception of the pattern of rubber ducks across the boots. She has her sketch book secured in a messenger bag that’s thrown across her shoulder and she shouts a goodbye to her roommates as she exits the apartment. She’s not sure they even heard her, they were so engrossed in their show.

The museum isn’t a far walk from Clarke’s apartment. It was actually one of the main things that attracted Clarke to the apartment in the first place, the fact that it was within five minutes walking distance to the art museum. And maybe Clarke spent a bit more time there than she should but there’s nothing wrong with getting a little inspiration from already finished works. And besides, it wasn’t like she was copying them. She was only pulling inspiration. Hopefully she could find something there to kickstart her muse again, or else she could say goodbye to her A.

Bellamy is working at the booth so she manages to get in without paying. She’s not sure why he always waives her fee but she’s grateful. The more money she can put toward supplies and maybe that trip to Rome she’d always dreamt of, the better. With squeaking boots, she climbs the stairs into the Renaissance wing. She’s always felt most inspired surrounded by the beautiful pieces that changed the course of art forever. She’d always felt like she could absorb some of their greatness if she stayed in there long enough.

She slips into one of the leftmost rooms, which is empty and really that doesn’t surprise her. It’s a weekend. Most people have better things to do. She sits down in the corner, crossing her legs underneath her. She knows that it’s probably against the rules to sit in the corner of an exhibit like this but Lincoln is the guard on duty (she’d passed him on the way in) and he likes her well enough not to blow her in with Indra, the head of security. Well, more specifically, he likes her rooommate well enough not to blow Clarke in and ruin his chances of ever getting with Octavia.

She pulls out her sketch book and turns it to a bright white, fresh page. She poises her pencil against the paper and she stares down intensely at the paper, pressing the tip of the pencil down into the paper.

And nothing.

She can’t think of a single thing.

She leans her head back against the wall. That’s it. She’s fucked. She’s never going to draw anything beautiful again. If she’s lucky, maybe she’ll draw an occasional fruit bowl but that’s as far as she’ll go. She’s tapped out of talent. She stares blankly at the wall opposite of her for…well she doesn’t even know how long. Long enough for everything to start to get blurry. She sighs heavily. This is useless. Nothing in here is inspiring her. Maybe she just needs a different room. Or a new brain. Maybe both.

She’s nearly ready to gather her things and leave, calling the afternoon a failure, when she hears the sound of footsteps coming from the doorway of the room. She looks up. Standing in front of a Vasari painting, is a girl whose profile is facing toward Clarke. She’s staring up at the painting with wide eyes and Clarke wouldn’t call the look in them….impressed but it’s something interesting. Something Clarke can’t put a label to. She’s holding her hands behind her back, her shoulders straight and her head held high. Regal, Clarke would call it. Like she’s royalty though there’s not a single person, besides Clarke, in this room for her to rule. Her hair is long and tumbling down her back, though the front of it is contained in an elaborate braid that keeps it out of her eyes.

She’s beautiful.

And then Clarke’s hand is moving. She can’t take her eyes off of the girl in front of her, not for a second, otherwise she might lose it. She hasn’t moved. She’s still standing in front of the same painting, the same clouded, slightly awed look in her eyes and Clarke wants to capture it. She never wants to forget eyes that look like that.

She doesn’t know how much time she has, either before her head shuts down on her or the girl turns her head and realizes this stranger is /drawing/ her, so she keeps her hand moving until she feels like she’s got everything. It only takes a few minutes but Clarke’s got a rough sketch of the girl down on paper and it’s a good thing too because finally, the girl tears her eyes away from the painting and looks in Clarke’s direction. Clarke, who still hadn’t managed to rip her eyes away from her, looks her right in the eyes. She has to say that both of them are better than just one of them.

Suddenly though, they’re narrowing. Her eyes flit down to the sketch book resting on Clarke’s lap where the picture of her is still present. Clarke blushes. And then she’s walking toward her and the look in her eyes isn’t wonder anymore. She stops just in front of Clarke, who gives her a lopsided smile in hopes it wards off any kind of anger. It doesn’t seem to. She looks down at Clarke and she’s not any less regal when she’s staring her down - if anything this makes her feel even more like royalty. Royalty who is probably about to have her head but the point stands. She points down the book. “Might I ask why you’re sitting in a museum drawing strangers?” The girl asks and Clarke shrugs.

"You can." She jokes and the look in the girls eyes just gets harsher, so clearly, joking isn’t the way to go. Clarke clears her throat. "I wasn’t planning on that. The paintings in here usually inspire me. But not today." She pauses and makes eye contact, "And then you came in." Clarke continues and it’s bold - which is really just a cover up for the fact that Clarke is feeling really, really embarrassed. She’s never been caught drawing someone without their permission before. Frankly, it’s awkward. The girl seems taken aback by Clarke’s admission, nearly as much as Clarke is, and she looks down at it again.

"It’s very good." She murmurs, turning her head to get a better angle. Clarke offers her the notebook, which she takes. She stares at it for a few moments and Clarke is chewing down on her bottom lip, waiting for some kind of reaction. Then she starts to smile. "Excellent, actually." She continues, handing the notebook back down to Clarke, who beams in response.

"Thank you. You were uh, a good subject. Even if you didn’t know it." Clarke says and now she’s really blushing. "I’m Clarke." She says, hoping to take some of the heat (literally) off of herself. The girl nods at her, that small smile still pulling at the sides of her mouth.

"Pleasure to meet you Clarke, I’m Lexa." She says and the name suits her. And maybe it’s the feeling of the weight off her shoulders now that she’s gotten something decent on paper for the first time in weeks but she looks up at Lexa and she asks,

"Do you want to get some coffee? I should probably confirm that I’m not some weird stalker so you don’t call the cops on me." Clarke says, moving to stand up. Lexa’s quiet for a few moments and she’s staring at Clarke, that same stare Clarke so desperately wanted to capture on paper still present. Then slowly, she nods.


End file.
